Posthumous Collab

This blanket is THE blanket, the one thrown over me in the car on make-the-baby-go-to-sleep-already drives, that came on every trip ever, and finally retired indoors in my mother's last house. When I brought the blanket to Brooklyn I saw many holes, not even via moth, just from age, and I saw that my mother had started repairs, darning in purple on black. So I joined the darns, mine in pale blue. It's a bit ongoing this project, but I'll post the whole finished article when it's done. Or done for now. Sorry if this sounds morbid; it struck me as the opposite.